Hardly Forever
by Call me Red
Summary: This is just something that flowed from my fingers one day...a distraction, I suppose, to say the least. Nothing monumental. I'd summarize but I think I've run out of room.


  
  
  
Disclaimer: What is it, Tuesday? In that case, they're not mine.  
  
Authour's Note You'll Probably Just Skip: A lil' background: Sarah Grey is Jean's older sister. No, really. I didn't make her up for dramatic purposes (unlike E! True Hollywood Story). This is after Jean died, on the moon, as Phoenix. I couldn't come up with a reasonable lie that Charles could have thought up to tell the family ("Yeah, so your daughter was possessed by this comic force, okay? Are you following me here?") so I danced around it. Let's all be friends and let me, okay?   
  
  
  
  
  
  
Hardly Forever  
  
  
Admittedly, a graveyard was not exactly what Sarah Grey had in mind for her morning off.   
  
She was in Westchester on business; in the early afternoon she was meeting some prospective clients about a site not too far from here. Only after she passed a flower stand did she have the inkling to visiting her sister's grave. Gosh, the words just sounded wrong in her mind. Her baby sister's grave.   
  
She stopped at a small café to grab some coffee, hoping it would soothe her frazzled nerves. Her oldest son was having a pre-life crisis, involving the a girl at school, and her youngest had caught her third cold of the year. Not to mention the fact that her husband was threatening to quit his job for the second time that month...  
  
She decided that she had put it off long enough. She climbed into her trusty Chevy (much more practical than the cute Sedan her parents had offered her; they'd never had to cart a teamful of kids to and fro a soccer game, had they?) and tried her best to remember the route to the graveyard.   
  
The iron gate was closed; apparently, they didn't have many visitors at ten o'clock on a Wednesday morning. Sarah slipped down onto the paved road and realized it might be closed to cars. She slipped in through a space between the bars and didn't bother to try and open the gate.   
  
Here was a place Sarah wasn't used to: the graveyard. In all her life, she'd been to a gravesite a total of three times. Once for her grandmother, once for a classmate that died of some obscure disorder, and once more for her sister. Her baby sister, Jeannie.   
  
Her heels wobbled dangerously as she navigated her way through the mesh of bits of gravel and sprouts of grass. Her parents had insisted the memorial be placed on their own family plot just outside of Annadale. But Jean had left behind specific wishes that she wanted to be buried here, in Westchester. Their mother had secretly taken it as a personal insult. Her pride kept her from making the 45 minutes drive to visit her daughter's grave.   
  
She noticed she was alone in the small stretch of land, on this damp, sticky day. Who in their right mind would want to visit a grave on such a depressing day, Sarah thought with a hidden smile, besides me? Her sister would have appreciated the absurdity of her visit in fact; she was in the area for business, and decided she could spare her poor sister's grave some of her time. Her precious time.   
  
She reached the memorial and immediately the feeling she'd felt on the day of the funeral snapped back into her consciousness. It had been about two months ago, but Sarah tried not to remember it. She had only stood where she was supposed to and stared at the grave carved with words that were presumed to mean something to her.   
  
She and her immediate family (her mother, her father, and Jean's husband - her own husband sent his best wishes) sat as Jean's friends came up to offer their condolences. She numbly accepted their kind words, their sympathy that should have went to the parents, all the while wondering what kind of people her sister had been associating with the years she'd been away from home.   
  
Scott had left early, muttering some kind of excuse to them and slipping away in the thinning crowd. Sarah wasn't sure if she liked Scott or not. Other than the funeral, she'd met him a handful of times, and none of those times left her with an altogether glowing impression. Truth be told, she didn't see what someone like her sister saw in him. They were opposites. Jean was vivacious where Scott was reserved. No, from what she'd seen, Sarah didn't really like her sister's husband.   
  
Of course, it was too late for that conclusion. Considering how much she'd seen of him when Jean was alive, Sarah greatly doubted she'd ever run into him at a family gathering.   
  
The day of her sister's memorial service was bright and sunny (which was odd - the forecast had called for brief showers). She remembered the people who had come up to her in the run of the day- a stunning black woman with stark white hair whose speech was so elegant Sarah was afraid she'd encountered royalty. A young couple made up of a lovely girl with two blond streaks in her auburn hair and a man whose accent she couldn't quite put her finger on (was it French? She couldn't pinpoint exactly). A short guy who barely said five words to her and dawdled in the back for most of the service (Sarah couldn't remember exactly what he said, but whatever it was had been quick and to the point- and strangely touching). There were quite a few, and even Sarah with her lousy memory for such details could recall none of them being what you would call the norm.   
  
And now, Sarah regarded the sad excuse for a bouquet in her hand and unsuccessfully tried to shake a little life into them before she left them on the grave. "Sorry Jeannie, she whispered as she rested the wilting lilies on the cool stone, "but down here, it's a little humid."   
Sarah collected her wide skirt in one hand and bent down, the scent of grass hitting her quickly. She glanced down at the simple headstone; Jean Elisabeth Grey, beloved wife, daughter and friend.   
  
Jean isn't even buried here, Sarah remembered. This wasn't a grave, it was a memorial. After all, they didn't exactly have a body to bury, did they? It's simply a memory, a place to let the world know that yes, this woman existed, and yes, now she doesn't. Sarah rested her chin on her hands and closed her eyes, ignoring the damp air and the humidity that hung around her.   
  
The differences that existed (or had existed, whatever) between the two girls were obvious. Always had been. Sarah was the older (supposedly) wiser one; Jean was the younger. Sarah was never into the dresses their mother would force her to wear on special occasions and sometimes for school, while Jean threw a fit if asked to slip into her 'play clothes'. Sarah left a trail of straight A's when she graduated and Jean, well, did she even formally graduate? Sarah couldn't recall.   
  
Jean was a redhead with green eyes, a fact that her father still could not trace back through family lineage. Sarah, on the other hand, took after her mother, with thick blond hair (which she currently kept cut to her chin) and chocolate brown eyes.   
  
It didn't end there. Sarah was a decidedly intellectual child, forever quoting things she had learned from TV or from school in an effort to impress her parents. She was very smart, and her teachers would make note of this on report cards home. This was more appreciated by her father, the professor. Her baby sister, however, preferred a different route for getting the attention she so craved. By being perfect. By being the pretty, well behaved, beautifully mannered, oh so talented child (a sibling's worst nightmare). Oh, how Sarah used to hate her sister.   
  
To sum it up, in the family car, Sarah would be engrossed in 1000 Questions and Answers, while Jean would be happily pouring over a copy of Vogue stolen from her mother.   
  
And speaking of their mother! Though she shared her looks, Sarah had always felt like Elaine Grey had given up on her eldest daughter the minute she announced her plans for her future.   
  
"Momma," a seven year old Sarah had announced one day after school, "I think I want to be an architect when I grow up. A man came to our school today who-"  
  
"A what? Say that again dear?" At the moment her still lovely mother was arranging a snack of Oreo's and milk (she really COULD NOT cook).   
  
"An architect. They design buildings," Sarah had dully repeated and explaining, with the understanding her mother was terrible at multitasking.   
  
"Oh." An intentional pause. "Oh really?"   
  
"It's really neat, they have all these blueprints and..." she trailed off, realizing her mother was not listening. She had drifted over to where baby Jeannie sat and pulled her up onto her lap.   
  
"What about you, Jeannie?" The young mother cooed to the little redhead, aged four years. "What does my baby want to be when she gets big?"  
  
The younger girl had hesitated, glancing first to Sarah for an answer. When all her sister did was glare and cross her arms, Jeannie cautiously ventured, "Like mommy?"   
  
"Oh, how precious," their mother had cooed, scooping up the girl. "Sarah, your little snack is on the counter. Be a big girl and pour the milk yourself. Mommy has to put your sister down for her nap."   
  
Sarah had only rolled her eyes (she learned that at a very early age).   
  
And now she has no choice but to like me, kiddo, she said to the stone, as if Jean could somehow hear her thoughts from way down here. Sarah barely remembered where she was when she was told her sister was dead. Her father was the one to break the news, if memory served.   
  
"I'm never growing up," Jean had declared one lazy summer day, wading in the creek near their summer home. She was ten, and Sarah, sitting on the bank with a book, was thirteen. The sun shone down where it could find a way around the leaves, and the grass was green and stretched forever.   
  
"Oh?" Sarah had replied distantly. "Good luck with that."   
  
"No, really Sarah," Jean had insisted, the water swirling around her feet as she waded. "I'm terribly serious." The younger girl had stuck two hands on their respective hips.   
  
What a sight she made, Sarah remembered. This kid, this child, with her jeans folded up so as to avoid the water, her sneakers dangling from one hand, and the sun bouncing off her messy red hair. How little she seemed (Jean had never really been big in any sense-her pants size stayed 5, her dress size a two, and her shoes a steadfast six), and how desperate she was to prove she was just as tough as anyone bigger.   
  
Sarah had realized the kid wasn't going to be quiet anytime soon. She tossed her book onto the blanket. "Okay I'll bite. Why?"   
  
"Because," Jean smiled, happy she had her sister's full attention. "It's useless."   
  
Sarah rolled her eyes.   
  
"Growing up," she continued, "involves leaving behind all the fun things. Like summer. What kind of grown up enjoys summer? And eventually, you have to fall in love, and get married and have babies, and all that nonsense."   
  
"Nonsense?" Sarah shook her head at the childish of her kid sister and wondered if she was as ridiculous at the same age. "Right."   
  
"As I said, Sarah," Jean concluded, as if she'd never been interrupted. "It's not for me. Nope. I'm staying just how I am forever and ever."   
  
Sarah, the three years she had on Jean giving her infinitely more wisdom, had sighed and crossed her tanned arms. "Never say forever, Jeannie. That's the real clincher. There's no such thing as forever." She decided then that her younger sister was too juvenile to pay attention to anymore and reached for her novel again. "And certainly don't add any ever's."  
  
The more she thought about it, the more she didn't like her sister.   
  
Sarah had been twenty three when Jean had come home from that school the first time for what she called an 'extended leave". Sarah herself was in the process of completing university in Alberta, after a few years she spent in Europe (nice place to visit, she wouldn't want to live there). Sarah never presumed to know anything about the life Jean led at that school of hers; she had her own life to worry about.  
  
One late, late night she walked into the kitchen for a glass of water and saw her sister, the redheaded wonder child, curled up at the breakfast nook, the contents of a small box strewn across the table's surface. She looked up to see Sarah, and a smile crept onto her face.   
  
"Come over, dear sister of mine," Jean had giggled as she patted a spot beside her. Sarah had obeyed, wondering what Jean was doing down here at this hour.   
  
"I hid this little box down here in the hopes I'd forget about it," Jean explained quickly as Sarah surveyed the mess of photos and cards and keepsakes lying randomly before her. "I should have left it behind, you know."   
  
"What is all of this?" Sarah had inquired softly after her sister was silent for a few beats.   
  
"Oh, just ...stuff." Jean laughed softly. "What else can you call it? It's stuff."   
  
Sarah had reached over and plucked a picture out of the ruins and ran her eyes over it. "Who's this?"   
  
Jean, wrapped up in reading some piece of paper, snapped her gaze to the photo held before her. "Oh, that's Bobby. I think...yeah, that was taken right after he failed his driving test for the third time." Jean laughed again, placing a hand over her mouth to hid her smile. "Eventually, you know, he nailed it, but he was nervous to try for a while."   
  
Sarah had only nodded gently. Jean took her inquiry as an invitation to show her a few more pictures. "This is Warren, with his brand new Cadillac. Isn't it gorgeous? He let me be the first one to test it out with him," she said proudly, as if disclosing some trophy piece of information. "And here's Hank. Sarah, he is so brilliant. Smarter than you, maybe. No, I'm only kidding. He can't design bridges, can he?" She looked up at Sarah, saw the odd look on her older sister's face.   
"What?"   
  
"Oh, nothing, Jeannie. So," I hoisted myself in the direction of the fridge. "You know what I've been up to the past few months-"   
  
"Designing bridges?" Jean offered.   
  
"Right. So what about...you?" Sarah unscrewed the cap on the bottle of water and leaned on the table, careful not to muss the scattered memorabilia. "What do you people do over there that's so special?"   
  
Jean looked down at the table, at the pictures, at the letters, at the tokens of her years spent away from home. "Nothing really. I mean, it IS a school. What else can you say about a school?"   
  
"You like it there?"   
  
"Of course I do." Jean brushed her hair back.   
  
"So why come home all of a sudden?"   
  
"I told you, I took an-"  
  
Sarah had sighed, cut her answer off with a brush of her hand. "I know, an 'extended leave'. But three months seems like an awful long time to take off. Don't you think?"   
  
"Why are you suddenly Colombo?" Jean muttered in self-defence.   
  
"Because, I'm your sister. Mom and dad, if you haven't noticed, are too piss-darned excited their baby's back home to notice something is bothering her." Jean opened her mouth to protest. "Please, don't deny. I'm an architect, we know these things." That made her sister laugh slightly.   
  
"I had no idea," Jean stated, toying with a paper between her fingers, "that I was so transparent."   
  
Sarah didn't reply, waiting for the answer to her question.   
  
Jean eventually curled her legs up and nestled her chin against her knees. "The only problem was," she began, "that I rushed into...attending the school without knowing what it was exactly I was getting myself into. I mean, everyone has a plan for life, right? Well you know as well as anyone I had nothing. Nada. Zilch. I have no idea what to do with the rest of my life."   
  
"Well, that's not true. You know you don't want any part of that growing up everyone is in such a hurry to do."   
  
Her sister's words gave Jean pause. She craned her neck to glance out the curved window to look at the night sky. "I met someone, Sarah."   
  
"You're kidding me." Sarah sat herself on the nearest chair. "I thought you said that wasn't your scene."   
  
"I know." Jean smirked. "But what can I say. I have nothing to say for myself."   
  
"Oh Jean, you're such a bad liar." Sarah leaned on her hand. "Now, tell me all about him."   
  
"His name is..." Jean seemed shy for the first time Sarah could remember. She was about to laugh. "His name is Scott."   
  
Sarah waited. When Jean didn't say anything else, she rolled her eyes. "That's it? What, did you meet him for three minutes on the subway or something?"   
  
"No! Oh, no. Nothing like that."  
  
"Oh. In that case, this guy sounds really interesting, kid."   
  
"Sarah - I'm madly in love with him."   
  
"Well then, let's hope you learn a bit more about him before you book the church, hmm?"   
  
"Stop it, I'm serious. Have you ever been in love?"   
  
Sarah considered the question. "With a person?"   
  
"Oh, stop kidding around."   
  
"My answer is regretfully no."   
  
"That just proves my point. Otherwise, you'd know exactly what I was talking about."   
  
"And do the parents know?"   
  
"Oh, his parents aren't alive anymore."   
  
"I meant ours."   
  
"Oh! No, why should I tell them?"   
  
"I think I'm beginning to see," Sarah drawled after she sucked down the last of her water. "You left because good ol' Scotty somehow isn't madly in love with our Jeannie." Sarah prided herself on being such a genius.   
  
"Er, no. Not exactly. I...I can't tell you why I left, Sarah."  
  
"You are a real piece of work, dear sister of mine."   
  
Sarah was only told the truth after her sister was dead.   
  
Sarah wasn't even sure if she liked her sister much anymore. How can you look at a person who you've discovered kept an entirely different (and in Jean's case, fatal) lifestyle the same way? And from the people who deserve to know it most: her family. Sarah hated the way Jean had decided to exclude them.   
  
Which brought her back to the graveyard, in front of the memorial with no body beneath it. The surprisingly simple stone that was cluttered with a few clusters of flowers.   
  
She remembered she hadn't once cried over the death of her sister. After all, how could she miss someone she never knew? How could she mourn a stranger? She'd had to explain to her two children who their Aunt Jean was, and why they were going to her funeral. They honestly had forgotten. It was alright for them; they were only young. But what was her excuse?  
  
Rising slowly, she noticed her attempt to keep her hem from dipping into the soggy ground had failed, and there was mud all over her shoes. Fantastic, she thought to herself. And I'm meeting clients in twenty minutes.   
  
She hobbled back to where her trusty Chevy was waiting.   
  
  
  
The End  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
